The Old White House
by editor frog
Summary: When stuck on a case in Michigan, Reid stumbles on something way more than he bargained for...
1. Part I

**The first of a three-to-five parter. Hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Criminal Minds is not mine.**

* * *

"Okay, guys, just…stay calm! I've got this figured out…"

"You sure about that, kid? I've been seeing us pass the same white house for the last two hours."

"Oh, come on, Morgan—that's not the same house."

"Yeah, it is—the blue shutters and lime green trim _do_ kinda make it stand out over there," Emily said, peering out of the tinted window again. "I mean, even in _this _weather…"

"Face it, Reid. We're lost."

"No. No, no, we're not." A long finger pointed towards a half-covered highway sign. "Look there—M-32. Cross road is…"

"Um, they make GPS for a reason." Morgan began fiddling with the navigation system's buttons, causing the little device to shriek and whine as though it were dying on the field of battle. "What the…?"

"You killed it, remember?" Reid said, in a 'see-I-told-you-so' tone. "Forgot all about how you got mad and missed the wheel, obviously…"

Suddenly, the SUV came to a grinding halt.

"Now what?" Morgan sighed, staring out the passenger window.

"Well, the traction seems to be decreasing due to the giant quantity of snow that's fallen over the last…"

"So how do we fix it?" Emily asked, anxious to get out of the backseat and be useful for a change of pace. The poor woman had spent the last two and a half hours listening to her two friends and colleagues bicker about how to get back to the airstrip, argue over the speed they were going, and fight over which way they were supposed to turn at every single corner.

"Honestly? Wait for a salt truck." Reid snapped off the ignition and let the SUV sit in the piling snow.

"Kid, you grew up in Vegas. What do you know about salt trucks?"

"Morgan, there's only three logical ways to get the SUV out of the snowdrift—using salt, using sand, or digging it out from the snowbank. This is Michigan, where they don't use sand as a traction device, and I seem to have forgotten my shovel. You have one in _your _bag, perhaps?" The slightly smug tone in the young agent's voice made Emily stifle a snicker.

"You forgot 'dial some help on my cell,'" Morgan retorted, pulling out his phone.

"Ah, Morgan…" Emily said, watching as her colleague punched a familiar series of numbers into his phone.

"What?"

"Already tried that." Emily's phone wiggled in her hands as she waved it like a flag of surrender. "There're no towers around here." As soon as she said it, Morgan's cell phone bleeped and flashed a warning—**No Service.**

The snow outside began to fall harder. A shiver crawled up Emily's back. "Reid, it's been two hours," she said. "Turn on the heater, will you?"

"And risk carbon monoxide poisoning?" Reid's face looked aghast, as if he'd been asked to slay a dragon or a phoenix.

"I'll crack the window. Fire it up!" Emily's hands were getting colder by the second. _What happened to the wet, rainy weather we were supposed to have? _ she wondered.

"Fine." The ignition started to turn over, then sputtered and died.

"Reid, what'd you do?"

"Nothing! I turned the key, and..."

"You turned the key, and the car dies?"

"Morgan, if _you_ think you can do a better job, have at it!" Reid yelled, his patience reaching its limit. "Good luck!" he shouted as he tore the door open and pitched the keys into Morgan's lap."

"Reid, where are you going?" Emily called out, cracking the backseat door a little. Her teeth were still chattering.

"I'll walk!"

"Kid, the nearest house is over a mile!" Morgan shouted. "Come on, get back in the car…"

"Well, _someone _has to let the others know where we are. No one's coming out in _this_, I guarantee you…"

"Reid. Come back," Emily said. "In like twenty minutes they'll send out sled dogs or something to find us. You know how anxious everyone gets when someone doesn't call in…"

"Look, there's a house back there," the youngest agent replied, pointing his arm towards a large barn. "I'll go there, see if I can't just ask to borrow the phone and let Hotch or someone know where we're stuck. It'll take a minute at most."

Morgan looked at Emily. Emily looked at Morgan. "Well?" the man asked, looking for the help he hadn't been finding throughout most of this godforsaken trip.

"All right. If you're not back in an hour, we're coming to find you," Emily called back. "And hurry!"

Waving a hand in the air, Reid turned and began walking towards the old white house—the one with blue shutters that they'd passed about a million times today…


	2. Part II

**Thanks for the reviews! Here's Part II--hope you enjoy!**

**Please see disclaimers in Part I.**

* * *

Snow piled upon the rickety porch. The lime green paint on the railings had faded with both time and the blanket of white matter that continued to nip at Reid's exposed fingers and soak his toes inside his socks.

_Doesn't look like anyone's…oh, wait—there's a light on back there…I can just make it out…_

Reid lifted a hand to knock on the splintering door, and then stopped. _Wait a minute, Spencer,_ his mind rationalized. _Every time you 'wander off' it leads you into nothing but trouble. Let's have a look around __**before**__ we see who's inside, hmm?_

Sighing, Reid backpedaled and carefully made his way down the nine steps leading to the snowy ground. His teeth chattered as he pulled his thin peacoat around him, and visions of that purple scarf that Garcia had given him as a Christmas present last year floated through his head. _Wish I had that now,_ he thought. _Not doing me any good at home in the top drawer…_

The first thing the young agent noticed was that there were no footprints—other than his own, that is. Though it was definitely likely that the people inside hadn't come outside in a while, Reid still found the absence of tracks even around the house itself to be unsettling. _You'd think they'd make a path to the barn in the back or something,_ he reasoned.

The old barn drew Reid closer, the promise of even minimal shelter from the heavily falling precipitation just too much to resist. The large sliding door was left slightly ajar, and the space was just wide enough to allow the skinny agent to pass through without trouble. Once inside, Reid noticed a large assortment of deer heads stuffed and mounted on one wall—clearly a 'trophy case' of sorts.

_Hunting is a religion in this part of the country,_ Reid remembered. _The sheriff himself talked about how November 15__th__ was like an unofficial state holiday…though, why anyone would celebrate by sitting in wait for a deer to come by…_

The floor crunched as Reid took careful steps across the wide floor. The barn was large, with a loft for hay or straw storage, and several large machines sat in one corner of the main floor—a farming tractor, a large combine, and several other machines that looked to be useful in welding or carpentry. The young agent eyed the set of chisels that lined a section of wall near the back of the barn, as well as the workbench littered with wood scrapings, old three-penny nails and several sizes of hammers and mallets.

_Carpenter,_ Reid thought. _Farmer too. Not uncommon. Winter prevents the work on the farm, so the income is made in other ways. _He inched closer to the combine, eyeing the large metal box with a menacing looking spout attached to it. The outer walls were caked with rust flakes and flaking paint. The spout looked like it would fall apart if not for a few steadfast screws that were still holding it together. _This thing hasn't been used in years,_ the agent realized. Looking back at the workbench, he noted a faint smell of cedar that wafted up from the shavings.

_Okay, so maybe __**not**__ a farmer. Maybe he rents out the land? Perhaps to pursue the carpentry work further?_

A loud creak startled the agent, and he quickly reached for his sidearm. "Someone in here?" a voice challenged. "If you are, show yourself!" The sharp sounds of a rifle being cocked rang through Reid's ears.

Reid gulped once. Carefully, he inched out from behind the ancient combine, holding his hands in a sign of surrender. "Please, don't shoot."

"You got a name, boy?" The rifle never wavered from its target, which was currently Reid's midsection.

"My name is Dr. Spencer Reid," the agent began. "I'm with the FBI."

"The hell the feds doing all the way out here?" the man holding the gun asked. Then, after a minute, a dawning of realization washed over the thin face. "You're here about those folks in the forest."

"Yes, sir, we are." To Reid's great relief, the rifle slowly lowered from its position towards him to one towards the floor.

"Well, why are you in my barn? I guarantee, I'm not hiding people in the loft."

"Actually, our vehicle broke down and got stuck about a mile down the road," Reid explained. "We'd have called out for a salt truck, but…"

"Yeah, no service. 'Specially in this weather," the man said. Reid got a better look at him as he came closer towards the agent—tall, well-built, steady with his hands. A pair of dark eyes flashed like two pieces of warm coal, and a resigned smile washed over the thin face. "House phone works."

"May I…?"

"Yeah. Come on in. Though, doctor, I have to ask—why didn't you just knock on the door?"

"Old habits, I guess," Reid covered. He felt embarrassed at thinking the worst of this man. "I've had some bad luck in situations like this before."

The man nodded. "Come on in. I don't expect you'll be but a minute."

Reid followed as the man led him towards the back door of the old white house. He couldn't shake a chill that ran up his spine—and though the temperature was dropping with the coming of night, the young agent wasn't entirely sure the feeling wasn't purely reaction to the cold.


	3. Part III

**So this is gonna be a five-act thing. Here's Part III. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The inside of the house was warm and inviting, though the only light on was the one inside the kitchen Reid stood in. Pale yellow walls stared back at him, trimmed with a white wallpaper border with a checked design on it. The ceiling was a dirty white; likely from age rather than neglect. The man who'd let him inside looked to be about his mid-forties, and there was a significant limp in his left leg.

"Old injury?" Reid asked, his eyes resting briefly on the injured limb.

"What? Oh, yeah. Nicked myself with a flyaway chisel. Tried to take on a piece of oak that just wouldn't agree with me." The man left Reid in the kitchen to wait, and the voice carried through a small entranceway towards what looked like a living room of sorts. Reid stood in the bright kitchen, looking at the old appliances that littered the space.

_God, is that a real pot-bellied stove?_ he wondered. _The place looks old, yeah, but I didn't think it was __**that**__ old…_

"Original to the house," the man said, startling Reid. "I notice you like old things, doctor?"

"Um, yes, I do," Reid replied hastily. "About that phone?"

"Oh." The man handed over a cordless phone. "Here. Line should still be working…"

"Thanks." A feeling of relief washed over the young agent's face. He hastily dialed a familiar number and waited impatiently for his party to pick up. "Come on, come on," Reid muttered under his breath. There was something about this place that screamed _**get out.**_

Suddenly the light in the kitchen failed, and the whole house was covered by a thick cloak of darkness. "Hello?" Reid called into the phone. "Hello? Hotch? Is someone there?"

"No use, doctor," the man replied. "Power goes out, so does cordless phones. Been meaning to get myself a standard one, but…"

_Great, _the agent thought. _It's still snowing like crazy, the SUV's inoperable, the temperature is getting colder by the minute, and I'm stuck here in a house that doesn't feel quite right…_

Just then Reid heard a muffled _thump_ echo from beneath him. Trying to focus in the pitch blackness, Reid's eyes could just barely make out the figure of his host walking towards him. "Stay back," the agent warned.

"Look, son, I'm not going to…"

Reid placed a ready hand on his sidearm. _If ever there's a time for this thing, it's now,_ he thought. "Just…just stay back!" he warned again, carefully backing towards the splintered pine door he'd entered through.

"Doctor…"

Between heaving breaths Reid managed to hear another loud _thump_ echoing from his feet. "What is that?" he asked.

"Furnace," the man replied. "Does that all the time. Should have it fixed, but with the price…"

Another _thump_ sounded beneath them. Seconds later, Reid heard footsteps coming from behind him. "Who's there?" he called out, not daring to take his eyes off his host.

Before the agent could get an answer, there was another _thump, _followed by a blinding pain in the back of his head. Reid's world turned completely black in an instant as his legs gave out.

--

"Bout time. Got this one makin' racket…couldn't shut 'im up."

There was a pained whimper that coursed through Reid's ears. Feeling extremely dizzy, he tried to pick up his head only to have it sink back on top of his chest. Something was supporting his shoulders in semi-upright position, and he curled his toes inward as a blast of cold air circled around them.

"What hap--"

"_Shh!_" a faint voice whispered. "If you talk, they'll know you're awake!"

Reid rolled his head to one side, trying desperately to face the voice that was warning him. "Where am…"

"_Shh!"_

The agent was about to speak again when he heard footsteps crossing overhead. Particles of wood and dust fell on top of the dazed agent, and it was all he could do to stifle a sneeze. He tried to brush away the offending matter, only to find that his arms wouldn't cooperate. Something cold was biting into them near his wrists.

"You had to let a _cop_ in here?!" a voice shouted, deep and hard.

"Caught 'im snooping in the barn," another voice replied. Reid recognized it as the voice of his 'host.' "You really think we could afford him getting up in the loft? Or how 'bout the…"

"Shut the hell up, you hear? Liable to tell everything, you are." The voices above the agent argued violently as they moved to another point in the house. Moments later, Reid thought he could make out a door slamming in the distance.

Reid tried desperately to focus his eyes. Even the act of moving his eyelids hurt, and the pain from his head wound hadn't lessened. "What's going on?" he whispered as loudly as he dared. The plea was no more noticeable than a breath of air.

"They're going to kill us," his companion said. "But not until they've had some fun."


	4. Part IV

**The last two parts will be quite a bit longer than the first. Hope you enjoy...**

**Pleasae see disclaimers in Part I.**

* * *

"How long does it take that kid to dial a phone number?!" Morgan asked. The snow was still steadily falling, but it was gradually lessening as the time passed. It was pitch black outside, and the only light the two agents had to see by were their standard-issue Maglites and the light of a bright full moon shining against the white backdrop of the snow.

"You think we should go after him?" Emily asked, munching on something from behind Morgan's seat.

"Hey—what're you eating?"

"Granola bar. Someone left it under the seat."

"You're not serious?!"

"Hey, a girl's gotta eat. We missed dinner."

Morgan sighed. He thought briefly about stepping outside the SUV to stretch his legs, but the thought of wet pant legs up to his knees from the snowdrift kept him inside. "Seriously, how long does it take to call Hotch or JJ and tell them we're stuck?"

"Maybe…he got lost?"

"There's only one house we passed in about ten miles. I'm not so sure about that."

"Yeah, but the snow _was_ coming down pretty thick. Remember the time Reid got lost in Phoenix?"

"Took three agents to find him," Morgan said with a laugh. "And that was just him trying to find the men's room."

Emily waved a hand at the white wonderland that surrounded them. "Well, this isn't exactly Phoenix."

"For one, it's a lot colder."

"Morgan. I'm serious."

"Me too. But," he added, seeing as Emily's eyes were doing that _why-do-I-even-bother_ thing again, "if he's not back in ten minutes I am damn sure heading up to find out what's taking him."

Emily relaxed. "Okay. I can give him that."

No sooner had they settled back into their seats did both agents see a welcome glow of light moving steadily towards them.

"You see? Reid's all right," Emily said. "Just a little slow on errands, though…"

--

Reid's eyes began to focus. He could vaguely make out a pattern before him—brown lines cutting into a dimly lit background. The agent tried to pick himself up, but the cold object that bound his wrists was giving him a bit of a problem.

"Don't fight it," the voice whispered. "They'll let you up, soon enough."

"Where am I?" Reid asked, keeping his voice low.

"The cellar."

"What's your name?"

"Paul. Paul Westfield."

"Spencer Reid."

"I'm sorry I met you."

The comment was too random to ignore. "Why?"

"Because they'll kill us both. Not today, or tomorrow, but eventually. They all die, in the end."

"_They_?"

"Their 'collection pieces.' I've had to watch two others die in front of me."

Reid's head began to hurt again. He tried to sit up.

"No, don't move!" Paul warned. "You do, it'll be worse…"

"How's that?" Reid felt his tongue grow thick and dry in his mouth. He wished he had some water.

"They like to 'work' with the new ones, at first. Teach them how to 'play.' When they leave you a certain way, you'd better be in that position when they come back—or else."

"Play? What do you…"

Just then, a creak echoed from a weak floorboard overhead. "You'll see," Paul hissed as the thundering footsteps above them drew closer.

--

"Finally!" JJ cried as she saw the lost agents wandering in from the outside. "Garcia's been so worried—she actually tried locating you through your cell phones…"

"See?" Emily said, smacking Morgan lightly on the shoulder. "The phones _did_ come in handy."

"Garcia was able to get a signal? Even with no towers?"

"Well, it wasn't the best, but you know Garcia…"

Suddenly Emily's face furrowed, a look of confusion washing over her features. "You found us through _our _phones?"

"Yeah, didn't you hear what…"

"JJ, where's Reid?" Morgan asked quickly.

"He's not with you?" The liason's face was now beginning to fill with worry.

"No—he left us to try and call _you_ to come get us," Emily replied. "There was this white farmhouse about a mile from where we got stuck…"

"Maybe he got a ride in from there?"

"Hotch! Rossi!" Morgan called out, spotting his superiors across the small station. "Either of you seen Reid?"

"He didn't come with you?" Rossi asked.

"Something the matter?" the sheriff asked, noticing that the agents were all looking worried about something.

"Sheriff, there was an old white farmhouse about a mile from where your boys picked us up," Morgan began. "Blue shutters, lime green trim…"

"You mean the Dover place," the sheriff said. "Thing's a relic. Last occupants lived there nearly thirty years ago. Old Mrs. Dover, she had some strange ideas about decorating, I can tell you."

"Has anyone been there since then?" Emily asked.

"Um…no, not that I can remember," the sheriff replied. "Rumor has it that a relative of some kind owns the place now; rents out the farmland to someone from out of town. Dover's owned nearly four hundred acres, so it makes for a good plot, really. House is on the side by some trees, but…"

Morgan already had his phone out. "Garcia…"

"And welcome back to the land of the living, my lost explorers. Figured we'd find frozen popsicles instead of…"

"Garcia, we can't find Reid."

"What?"

"Reid went off towards a house—I'm gonna give you the address now—and never came back. It's been three hours, no one's seen him."

"Address." Morgan rattled it off. After a few minutes, Garcia was back. "Put me on speaker." Once she was able to be heard by everyone, Garcia continued. "Old house, built in the 1890's, owned by a family called Dover. Last known occupants were James and Alice Dover; both are now deceased."

"Owner of record?" Emily asked.

"Mmmm…tax records show it belongs to a William Dover, address is in Pennsylvania. But wait, there's more—leasing records show that the land is rented out to a Simon Baker and Sons, which is…yep, a small farming conglomerate operating right in your area."

"Baker and his folks operate about a third of the available land in this area," the sheriff added. "Not a lot of farmers left around these parts."

"Could someone be living in the house illegally?" Hotch asked. "Someone trying to stay off the radar?"

"Haven't had many problems with the place, though it's getting to be in bad shape now," the sheriff replied. "Not many homeless to speak of in these parts, and the kids prefer the old silos not too far from Charlevoix for dope and whatnot…"

"Isolated area, not bothered," Emily began.

"Proximity to the woods," Rossi added.

"Oh, guys?" Garcia's voice came back through Morgan's cell. "There's a current electric bill for the place—someone had the lights turned on some while back."

"How long?" Hotch wondered.

"About a year ago. The charge isn't very much, couple of dollars to maintain the connection and run a light or two—the bill's listed under the owner's name, but there's no water or heat listing for him."

"Get William Dover on the line," Hotch demanded. JJ made the call. A few minutes later, she came back looked deeply concerned. "Will Dover hasn't been in the state of Michigan in nearly twenty years—he was at home in Pennsylvania when I called. As for the light bill, he's never seen a charge mailed to him…"

"Means whoever's in that house is posing as the owner, and paying the bill themselves," Emily reasoned. "Garcia? How's this bill getting paid?"

"Cold hard cash. Obviously our creeps never heard of checks or plastic."

"It's almost impossible to pay a bill in cash, though." Rossi murmured. "Believe me, it's all documentation nowadays."

"We gotta go back to that house, Hotch," Morgan said finally. "Something's not right about this..."

The request was silently seconded as the rest of the team gathered their coats and headed straight for the door.

--

"Well, let's see what we've got here," came a voice down the cellar steps. Reid was now conscious enough to remember the voice. It belonged to the man who'd given him the head wound. "Maybe he'll be a little more fun than you, Paul…"

There was a sound of shifting over the dirt-strewn ground and a small sigh of defeat. The next thing Reid felt were his hands being released from whatever was holding them to the corner he'd been 'placed' in. His wrists, however, remained securely bound. "Stand up," the voice said sharply, yanking on the agent's arms. Still fighting the dizziness from the head wound, Reid slowly complied.

"Hmm. Very nice. Turn around—slowly."

Reid stood frozen in place. He wasn't about to give in to this sick fantasy.

A moment later, Reid was screaming in pain. A white-hot charge had shot through his feet, coursing through his nerves all the way the top of his head.

"Now, shut up and do what you're told," the voice said again. "Turn around."

Very slowly, Reid spun in place. "Oh, lovely. Good height, good structure. Little bony, though."

The voice drew closer to Reid, who was trying hard not shake with both fear and cold. "You like to play?" the round man said, keeping that hard voice calm and level.

"P-Play what?"

"See? That's good," the round man crooned. "This one looks okay."

"Yeah, but how strong is he?" wondered the other voice, which belonged to his 'host.' "Bring 'em both out. It's time we had a little fun."

Reid quickly looked over at Paul, standing in his own ornate wooden cage. The bars were thick and hard, and they curved towards the top to form the 'bowl'-like shape of a giant birdcage. Over in another corner, Reid saw a third cage like the ones he and his companion occupied. It was empty.

"Just play along," Paul whispered as he was led out of his cage and shoved next to Reid. The man looked to be about Reid's age, but was severely bruised and emaciated. Parts of Paul's extremely long, sand-colored hair were falling out in patches. There were holes in his thin shirt, and his blue jeans were badly frayed and worn. Large stains covered the cloth, as well as points on Paul's skin—there didn't seem to be water available to clean up with.

"Go on, boy. Show him how it's done," the round man barked. "Play nice, and you might eat later."

Reid swallowed hard as Paul took tiny steps towards a long wooden table. The younger man sat down in a rickety wooden chair, allowing his captors to bind him to the object. His face was expressionless.

"Now, you," the round man snapped again. "Walk over here, real slow. Try anything funny, and this one here bites it."

Swallowing hard, Reid complied. When he was standing next to the chair that held Paul, he felt something snap around his wrists, freeing them.

"You'll need your hands, I guess," the round man decided. "But mind: Rick over here is an excellent shot, and he'll have fun turning you into a walking target. Am I clear?"

Reid nodded.

"Say it."

"Yes, I understand."

"Good. Now, take this." A small razor was placed into Reid's hand—the kind he and his colleagues used when on the road. The agent turned the plastic-handled object in his hands a minute, thinking about what he could do with it.

"Shave his hair off."

The expression that came off of Reid's face was one of confusion and sorrow. He looked down at Paul, who was trying to mask his own grief at being humiliated by these madmen that sought to torture them.

"I-I…"

A sharp slap and a poke of something sharp silenced the agent. "First rule: you obey _every_ direction we give you. Second rule: _never_ speak unless told to. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Reid's voice was barely a whisper.

"Now, cut his hair off. Starting to bother me, it is, all falling out like that."

Swallowing hard, Reid gently placed the tip of the razor towards the front of Paul's head. With the first stroke, Reid realized he been forced to take more than just hair off of a person's head. He had been forced to strip two people's dignity from them.

"Good, good," the round man replied, a satisfied tone to his voice. "You're learning. This one might work better than we thought, Rick."

"Bout time," Reid's 'host'--Rick, apparently--seconded. "Last two didn't hold up, not like our boy here." The agent watched as 'Rick' clapped a large hand on Paul's shoulder. Paul flinched slightly underneath the touch.

Once Reid was finished, he was seized quickly by the round man and thrown on top of the wooden table. "And now," his captor said, an evil lilt to his voice, "the boy here is gonna teach you about pain."

Soft brown eyes looked up at his companion, who was released from the chair and forced to stand next to the table. A thick wooden stick the size of Reid's arm was placed in the younger man's hand. Behind Paul, Reid's 'host' stood guard, the barrel of the rifle just inches from Paul's back.

"You know what to do, boy. Show him."

Paul looked down at Reid, whose arms had been chained to the top of the table. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, and through silent tears he brought down the first strike.


	5. Part V

**So I lied. There's gonna be an epilogue, making this a six-part story. Oh well. Hope you enjoy!**

**Please see disclaimers in Part I.**

* * *

Reid couldn't move. His limbs and torso ached so badly that even picking up a finger sent fiery pain soaring through him. He tried to open his eyes, but one refused due to the swelling. The other was staring at the cold, rocky ground beneath him.

"I'm so sorry," Paul had said, and then he had delivered the first blow. Their captors continued to push the younger man to beat Reid almost senseless, though the black eye had come from the agent trying to defend himself. Forgetting that his hands had been shackled to the table to prevent his escape, he accidentally hit himself in the face, striking the area just below his right eye.

"There, you see?" the round man said brightly, as if to 'praise' Paul on his 'performance.' "Last rule: good behavior is rewarded. Defiance is punished. Am I clear?"

"Y-yes," Reid managed to whisper. His breaths were slow and shallow, and the mere act of taking in air sent shooting pains through his chest. "I-I unders-stand."

"Well, Rick," the round man said. The sound of heavy footsteps began to patter away from the table and towards the center of the small cellar. "I do believe this one has somethin' to 'im. What say you?"

"Not bad, a first go. We should clean 'im up, though—can't afford to lose another one…"

"That reminds me," the round man added. Reid could hear the heavy footsteps pattering back towards him. Instinctively, the agent tried to curl into a protective ball, but his shackled arms made that a bit difficult. When strong fingers grasped Reid's brown locks, the agent cried out in pain. "Were you with anyone when you came snooping, boy?"

"N-no," Reid squeaked. "I…I was alone. I got stuck."

"He's got friends nearby," 'Rick' added, almost as an afterthought. "Tried to call someone…forget the name, though."

"That true? You got friends looking for you?"

_Think fast, Spencer, _the agent thought feverishly._ Morgan and Prentiss should be coming for you any minute—it's been well over an hour by now…_

"No," he breathed. "I was t-trying to call my boss, b-back in Virginia…"

"See there? No problems," the round man boomed. Reid felt his arms being yanked free of their bonds and a giant arm pick up his battered frame in one deft move. Reid screamed in pain as he was tossed into his cage, landing soundly on the floor.

"Now shut up," the round man demanded. "Both of you. You played well, so you can eat. We'll be back in a minute."

As the sounds of footsteps clattered up a wooden staircase, Reid sprawled out on the ground. The frozen dirt underneath him was acting as a soothing compress for his numerous wounds.

"I'm so sorry, Spencer," Paul said, careful to keep his voice low. "I'm so sorry…"

"It's…not your fault," Reid whispered. Heaving a deep breath and wincing in pain, he asked "How long have you been here?"

There was silence. "A while. Maybe…three, four months?" came the eventual reply. "What month is it?"

Reid couldn't remember offhand. His head was swimming. Had Christmas passed? _Yes, _he realized. _Garcia gave me a scarf…it was purple…_

"It's…January, I think," the agent told him. "I-I'm not sure…"

"Five months, then," Paul realized. "Last date I remember was September 15th." The man sighed heavily, and then continued. "I was supposed to meet someone, and I never made it."

"Who was it?"

"A girl. Laura. We'd been seeing each other a while." Reid thought he heard Paul swallow thickly. Gingerly, the agent tried to pick up his head from the floor, squinting his eyes against the searing pain that accompanied the motion. Once his eyes focused, he could make out Paul's form leaning against the bars of his cage, slumped over in defeat. Reid could swear he heard the other man crying. "She's probably forgotten me," he said through his tears.

"You…you don't know that," the agent contradicted, trying to keep Paul's hopes up. Reid knew that if the other man lost hope, he would break completely. "Think about her. She's the reason you've survived this long, isn't she?"

More silence. "Yeah," Paul replied finally. "I keep thinking--if I just 'play along'…if I 'cooperate'…maybe I can get out of here. I can be with Laura again."

"Keep holding on to that," Reid advised. "My friends? They're coming for us. Soon. I know they are."

"But…you said…"

"I lied," Reid said evenly, keeping his voice a whisper. "I was with two of my colleagues when we got stuck in the drift. By now I'm sure they've figured out something's wrong…"

The sound of feet pounding on wooden stairs made both men fall instantly silent. Seconds later the scent of warm bread filled Reid's nostrils.

"Here," the round man said, shoving half of a small loaf inside Reid's cage. "Eat slow—it's all you're getting for a while." The man then spun on his heel and thundered back up the rickety stairs, slamming a door and throwing a lock on the outside.

Reid looked over at Paul, who had set into the bread at once. _He probably hasn't__ eaten in days, _the agent realized. Picking up his own section of the hard loaf, he gingerly poked at the brownish-white substance. _What if it's poisoned?_

Again, Reid looked over at Paul. His section of bread had been devoured, and though the young man looked a little green from eating too much at once, he looked fine otherwise. The agent tore off a small piece of bread from his half and sat upright. Gritting his teeth, he carefully inched closer to where Paul was imprisoned and poked the remains of the bread through the thick bars on both cages.

"Here," Reid said. "Eat it."

Paul stared at the offering, his eyes showing how eager he was to snatch it from Reid's hands and gobble it down in one bite. He then set his own jaw firmly and slowly shook his head. "I couldn't," he whispered. "You'll starve…"

"It's okay. I ate already today. Go ahead, eat it."

Long, bony fingers crept closer to the crusty prize Reid held out in his hand. Once they came in contact with the bread, Paul tore the food out of the agent's grip and began devouring it. Reid's heart broke as he watched the starving man choke slightly on a part of the hard crust.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice tense.

Paul coughed a couple more times and then cleared his throat. "I'm okay," he said. "Thank you." A grateful smile washed over his thin, gaunt face.

There were more noises coming from upstairs—the sounds of feet shuffling across the floorboards, the slamming of doors, the shouts of irritation that were pelted back and forth like verbal swords.

"Dumbass! Pipes froze again out there—didn't you put dirt over that thing like I told you to?!"

"What dirt? You think you're gonna get anything out of this crappy plot?"

"Well, that new one, he's gotta get cleaned up." Reid heard the round man heave a great sigh directly overtop of where the young agent was trapped. "Fine. Grab a bucket and fill it with snow. We'll melt it if we have to."

"What about the other one?"

"He's fine, just a cloth. I don't want that new one getting sick—not like that last kid. Damn shame, that."

"He wouldn't have lasted anyway."

"How the hell would _you_ know? There something you're not telling me?" the round man challenged.

Silence reigned in the house a long moment. Then there was the sound of another door slamming and a chair being dragged over towards something. "Dumbass," Reid heard the round man mutter.

_What are they up to? _the agent wondered fearfully.

A door creaked, and feet sounded overhead once more. After several minutes, those same feet pounded against the rickety stairs leading towards the cellar.

Before Reid had time to realize what was happening, he felt his wrists being bound again and then secured onto a bar in the corner of the cage. "Hold still," the round man hissed. "Gotta clean you up."

A large hand took a cloth out of a metal bucket, pressing the cold, wet object onto Reid's flesh. It took every bit of willpower he possessed to neither flinch under the touch of the freezing rag nor shudder at the thought of being 'cleaned' like an infant. Nearby, Reid could make out the shape of his 'host' tossing a wet cloth into Paul's cage.

"You like that?" Reid heard his captor ask. "Feels better to be clean, doesn't it?"

Slowly, and with great difficulty, the agent nodded his head. "It does," he agreed softly, remembering Paul's advice about 'playing along.'

"Good. Now, get some sleep. Both of you. We'll 'play' again in the morning." The last part of that statement was almost _sung_ with glee, and that fact alone made Reid's skin crawl. The sound of their captors climbing the stairs for the night was a welcome relief to both of the men now trapped in the cellar.

_Come on, guys,_ Reid thought. _Where are you?_

--

"Morgan! Slow down!" Emily cried, holding onto the dashboard in front of her as if for dear life. "Do you even remember where we _were_?"

"It's here somewhere," Morgan repeated for what had to be the eleventh or twelfth time since the team had left the station. He didn't want to admit that he hadn't really paid much attention to the direction their 'saviors' had taken to get back. "Just a little more…"

Pulling out a two-way radio, Emily called back to the SUV in front of them. "Sheriff Bronson? Where are you?"

"Almost at the Dover place," the sheriff called back. "About quarter of a mile to go…you still behind us?"

Emily's eyes squinted at the sight in front of her. Though Morgan was terrible with directions, she had to admit he could follow along fairly well if he had to. "We're about a mile back," she finally replied. "I can barely see your taillights."

"Stay straight then, and follow the tracks," the sheriff advised. "We'll wait for the rest of you to get here—I'm not taking any chances…"

"Okay. Thanks." Emily let go of the radio's _send_ button and turned to look at her colleagues. Morgan's face was the portrait of determination. Behind them, JJ tried to hide her worry and frustration for Reid's well-being but also looked determined to find out what was going on. Emily knew the feeling—the team was practically a family, and losing Reid was, in Emily's view, the equivalent to losing a little brother.

"We should've never let him go," she heard herself muttering.

"What?" JJ asked.

"Nothing.

"What is it?"

Emily sighed. "I said we should have never let him go. Not by himself, anyway."

"Prentiss, don't do that," Morgan warned. Privately, Emily knew that Morgan was thinking the exact same thing she was.

"I know, I just…"

"He's gonna be fine. How many times has he gone off alone and been okay?"

"Compared to the times he's gone off alone and _not _been okay? It's about fifty-fifty, at this point."

The three agents heaved a collective sigh. Emily knew they were realizing she was right. As soon as Morgan pulled the SUV next to the old white house, she could hear them let out a small sigh of relief.

_Finally,_ the agent thought, brushing a piece of her dark hair from her face. _Now we can do something about this…_

--

Reid's good eye was just about to close when he heard Paul hissing. "Hey," the younger man called out, as loudly as he dared. "Someone's coming!"

"No," Reid breathed. "I thought they left…"

"Listen! The footsteps!" Paul's voice betrayed the overwhelming hope he had that it was someone other than their captors coming back for more 'fun' at their expense.

The footsteps grew louder, crunching in the snow just outside. Several climbed up the back stairs, and suddenly Reid could hear the old door upstairs being kicked in. "FBI!" a voice rang out, calling so loudly and clearly that even the dead would have heard and understood it. "Reid! Are you in here?!"

"Morgan!" Reid cried, his voice weak from the beating. "We're down here!"

"Reid?" That voice belonged to Hotch.

"Hotch! Downstairs!"

The sound of the door opening to the cellar seemed to give Paul the courage he needed. He began screaming at the top of his lungs, which wasn't much considering his condition. "Help us! Please! We're trapped down here! Let us out!"

The sound of footsteps rained down on the rickety stairs, causing them to crack in several new places. Three figures stood near the exit, staring at the cellar's layout.

"My God," called one voice. Reid knew immediately that it was Emily.

"Emily…" the agent called out, mindful of his bruised and battered frame. "Over here…"

The figures hurried over to the cages, working at getting the locks off. "Stand back," one of the figures said, someone not known to Reid. Chained as he was, Reid stayed absolutely motionless as the sheriff's officer fired three shots at the lock that held the door to Reid's cage in place. As soon as the door was opened, Emily rushed in.

"Oh my God, Reid," she said, working on his bindings. "What happened…?"

"They're upstairs, I think," Reid whispered. "Don't worry about me--there's another guy, over there…" The younger agent's head tipped towards Paul's cage.

"They've already got him," Emily said, looking up. Sure enough, once she finally freed Reid from his bonds she helped her colleague to his feet and he saw Rossi gently steadying Paul on his feet.

"It's over," he heard the younger man say. "It's finally over…"

"Prentiss! Rossi!" a voice called down the steps. "Everything all right?"

"Hotch, we've gotta get an ambulance here, _right now_," Rossi called back. "Reid's okay, but there's another victim here…"

The next thing Reid remembered was the floor suddenly rushing up to meet his face, and then blackness.


	6. Part VI

**This is not the epilogue.** **That's coming tomorrow. Hope you enjoy!**

**Please see disclaimer in Part I.**

* * *

"Reid? Reid!" Emily cried as her colleague collapsed onto the ground. "Hotch! Morgan! Little help here!"

"Here," Rossi said making sure the young man he was supporting was steady on his feet. The poor soul looked like a refugee from a concentration camp, all filthy and emaciated. Bright blue eyes stared at the sight of Reid's limp form curled on the ground. As soon as he realized the young man could barely stand, Rossi left him to the care of two sheriff's officers and bent down to help Emily.

"I didn't want to do it," the young man kept repeating in a soft voice. "I'm so sorry…I didn't want to…"

"It's okay," Rossi said to the scared man. "He's gonna be fine." Privately, he was more worried about the one talking than his colleague who'd passed out on the dirt floor.

Above them, the sounds of footsteps grew louder. "What the…" a voice rang out, surprised and angry.

A chorus of "FBI!" overpowered the rest of the man's sentence, and the sounds of racing feet and slamming doors echoed through the small space below.

"Oh, no, you don't," the group heard Morgan declare as the door slammed again.

"Morgan!" another voice rang out. More steps followed, growing fainter as they inched towards the front of the house.

Beside him, Rossi noticed the young man shaking like a leaf. "Hey," he said, trying to calm him. "You have a name?"

"Paul, sir," the man whispered. "Paul Westfield. Please, don't let them…"

"They're not coming back for you," Rossi said flatly. "Count on it."

Paul's legs shook slightly as he broke into heaving sobs of relief. His teeth chattered through the biting cold. Rossi noticed that his feet were bare and caked with dirt, and that his ragged clothes provided little protection from the falling temperatures.

"You two got him?" Rossi asked, throwing a glance at the two officers that supported the young man.

"Yes sir," they replied. "Let's get them out of here."

--

_Fat little man sure is quick,_ Morgan conceded grudgingly as he fought through the deep snow after him. The one good thing about dealing with unsubs and snow was that they always left an easy trail to follow.

"Hotch! Over here!" he called out to his superior, his sidearm at the ready. When Hotch looked at him, he motioned toward the large barn. "Went in there," he said, lowering his voice slightly.

The two men had worked together long enough to know each other's signals, and this time was no different. Hotch's head tipped once toward the large sliding door. He swung his head again in a small arc, signaling that he would cover the back. Morgan tipped his head once in agreement, and began moving towards the door.

The sounds of something banging against something else rang through the agents' ears. Morgan carefully slid the door open enough to admit himself, keeping his firearm at the ready.

"Damn it!" a voice called out from the loft. "That new one lied to us!"

"No shit," another voice called back, trying to stay as quiet as possible. "Kid said he was a fed, but hell—little young, isn't he?"

"Wait—he _said_ he was a fed?!" the harsher voice cried. "Are you _beyond _stupid?"

"Figured it out, Dan," the calmer voice shot back. "Had to do something…and besides, he _is_ pretty fun…"

Morgan's insides turned over at the imagery _that_ statement brought up.

"Well, we're screwed now," the harsh voice—'Dan'—snapped. "Help me get these into the combine…good thing they kept this…"

"FBI!" Morgan shouted, pointing his sidearm straight for the figures above him. "Come on down here, nice and easy…"

A stream of curses shot out of 'Dan's' mouth. "Come up here and get me, eh?" he challenged. "Not giving up my toys that easy…"

"Oh, yes you are," Morgan replied. "My boys got 'em now." Knowing that the loft had only one exit, he called out for Hotch to join him.

_Up there? _the lead agent's body language seemed to say.

"Yeah."

"Come down here," Hotch demanded, keeping his own pistol at the ready. The only reply the agents received was silence.

"Fine," Hotch said. Looking at Morgan, he furrowed his brows a little. "Light the place," he said, keeping an even tone.

The look of pure shock on Morgan's face was unmistakable.

"You heard me. Set it on fire. They don't want to come down…"

"All right! All right!" a voice called back—it was the calmer one. "You win. We're coming."

"Nice and slow," Morgan warned as the tall man inched his way down the old wooden ladder. As soon as the figure hit the barn floor, Morgan immediately pounced on him.

"Now you," Hotch called up again.

The only reply he received was a shotgun blast that rang through his ears.

"No, no, no, no, no," Morgan said, his voice rising with every 'no.' Racing up the ladder, his eyes were greeted with the sight of bright red straw and legs that did not have a torso attached.

"He wasn't gonna give up," their captive said evenly. "Not that easy."

--

"What'll happen now?"

"Dunno. Palmeri claims that it was Daniel that came up with the idea, and of course…"

"…there's no way to prove it." There were steps and then a strike against something hard. "Damn!"

"We still have him on the abductions."

"Yeah. Only taking people who got lost or broke down out there? Pretty clever."

"Still, though…"

"Not gonna find out any more until Reid wakes up, Morgan, and Paul's talking right now. Relax."

"I know, I just…"

"Morgan, calm down."

The last voice startled everyone in the room. A single brown eye fluttered open, and a soft moan escaped from a thin set of lips. He wanted to turn over, but something heavy prevented his leg from cooperating and his chest flared in pain when he tried to move.

"Hey, Reid," Morgan said, looking both worried and relieved.

"Hey." A moment passed before Reid remembered to ask, "Where's Paul?"

"JJ and Emily are with him now," Hotch said. "Figured it would be better if he didn't move around too much."

"Yeah." Reid tried to sit up, but found the bed to be impossible. "It wasn't his fault…"

"What wasn't?"

"This," the young agent replied, waving a hand slightly over himself. "He didn't want to do it. They made him…"

"Wait—that kid in there caused _this_?" Morgan's eyes were furrowing dangerously.

"Not like that," Reid assured him. "They…they tied him down to a chair, and made me shave his head. Then they threw me on that table and chained me to it. That one guy, the fat one…he shoved Paul next to the table and put a thick wooden rod in his hands. If he hadn't beat me, the other one--Rick, I think his name is--would've shot him point-blank in the back." Staring at his colleagues, he said, "He really didn't want to do it. I know it."

"It's okay, Reid," Hotch told him. "I don't blame him either."

"Did you find any others?"

"Others?"

"Bodies?"

"Just the one the fat man left," Morgan groused. "Shot himself in the loft. Point-blank."

"Oh." Reid closed his eyes a moment, trying to take in that bit of information.

"How'd you end up down there?" Rossi asked.

"Was looking for a phone," the young agent said. "Our phones didn't work, and the SUV got stuck…bad luck, huh?"

"Or good luck," Rossi pointed out. "Those bodies in the woods? All victims of those two. Seems they'd been doing this for over a year…"

"Paul said he'd watched two die. He figured he'd been trapped there five months…"

"It _was_ five months. His girlfriend reported him missing three days later," Hotch said.

"She here?"

"Yeah. She moved recently, to Charlevoix…Garcia didn't quit till she found her, either," Morgan supplied. "Man, I'm just glad it wasn't worse."

"My own fault, I guess," Reid couldn't help but flash a bit of a sad smile. "You'd think I'd learn by now..."

"I'm not entirely convinced that's true," Rossi said. "This time some good came out of it—you saved that young man's life."

"Me? How…?"

"You knew we'd come looking eventually," Morgan reminded him. "Paul said you'd lied about being alone, and told him you knew we'd come."

"I did know you'd come." The look on Reid's face only demonstrated his adamancy on the point. "That's how it works."

Suddenly a slew of new faces intruded on Reid's room—Emily and JJ, looking resigned but satisfied; Paul, taking small, determined steps and clinging onto an IV rack as though for dear life, and a young woman—obviously Laura—holding Paul by his right arm. Though the young man leaned heavily on the woman, the smiles on the couple's faces were enough to light a ballroom. Emily quickly grabbed one of the hard plastic chairs in the room and Laura sat Paul down in it.

"I'm so sorry," the young man said, looking at Reid lying in the bed. His eyes rested on the agent's brand-new cast that covered his left leg and the bandages that were wound around Reid's torso and left wrist. "I didn't want…"

"I know," Reid assured him. "It's okay."

"It was them," Paul said, looking at the agents. "If they weren't beating and torturing me themselves, they'd make us...do things to each other. One of the others—Josh, I think he said his name was—they made me cut him…there was so much blood…" The sounds of the man's quiet sobs filled the room. "I didn't…"

"It's okay," Laura said, trying to calm him. "_They're_ the ones to blame for this. Not you."

"But I…"

"You were doing what you had to, so you could survive," Emily seconded gently. "You didn't have a choice."

Paul's legs began to shake violently. He wrapped his arms around himself, as though he were shivering. "Are you all right?" Laura asked, her voice filled with concern.

"It's so cold…"

"Are you sure you should be up?" Reid heard someone ask. Looking towards the door, he saw a plump, thirtysomething black woman in pink scrubs looking straight at Paul. "I swear, you keep getting out of bed instead of _resting_ like you _should be _and you're never gonna get out of here…"

"Sorry," Paul said, his voice a whisper.

"Nothing to be sorry for," the nurse said. "Just take it easy and _rest_, okay?"

"Okay."

"Come on," the nurse said, taking one of Paul's arms. "I'm sure this lovely woman here would be thrilled to help walk you back to your _own_ room…"

Taking her cue, Laura took hold of Paul's other side and helped walk him back to his room. "Thank you," she said, eyeing each of the team members scattered around Reid's room. "I don't know how…"

"Our pleasure," Rossi said.

Paul looked back. "Get better?" he said, looking at Reid.

"I will. You too."

"Damn right," Paul said. A small smile crossed his face as he looked at Laura, who began moving him forward. "I've got a lot to catch up on."


	7. Epilogue

**Please see disclaimers in Part I.**

* * *

"What were you doing over on Eleven Mile?"

"I'd gotten lost, sir. I was trying to meet someone, and I'd taken a wrong turn."

"You were meeting someone?"

"Yes, sir." Reid noticed Paul's determination as he sat in the witness box. The younger man was wearing a thin gray sweater, which seemed a little out of place in a sweltering courtroom. "My girlfriend, Laura Reston. We were supposed to meet at a place in Petoskey…"

"And then what happened?"

"After a while I realized I was driving in circles," Paul continued. "There was this old white house I kept passing as I went. I stopped there to see if I could get directions, or at least use a phone."

"You couldn't use your cell phone?" the prosecutor asked.

"No, sir. There wasn't a signal. Area's known for it."

"Objection!" the defense attorney called out. "Supposition!"

"I think we can concede that the area in question has no service, Counselor," the presiding judge ruled. "We've had testimony from three other witnesses about that point, as well as evidence from the company itself. Overruled. Please, Mr. Westfield, continue."

"I walked up to the old house…"

"This would be the house shown in this photograph?" A small slip of photo paper was given to Paul, and he studied it.

"Yes, sir. This is the one."

"Let the record show the witness has identified the place in question as the one shown in Exhibit C," the prosecutor requested.

"So noted. Continue."

"Knocked on the door, and…_that man…_he let me in…" Paul's voice began to grow quiet.

"Is that man here in the courtroom today?"

Reid watched silently as Paul heaved a small sigh and bit his lips. "Yes, sir," the young man replied. "He's sitting over there."

"Let the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant as the person who admitted him."

"So ordered."

"Please continue."

"I was let in the house, and _that man_…Mr. Palmeri…he let me in the front room. When I explained I was lost and just wanted to use the phone, he brought one out—a cordless model."

"What happened then?"

"Next thing I knew the phone didn't work, and something hit me over the head. When I woke up I was in a giant wooden cage with a dirt floor."

"Did you know why you were there?"

"Not at first. There was another man there, about my age, in a similar cage next to me. I tried to ask what was going on, but the other man hushed me. I soon learned why."

"Why was that?"

"Because there were footsteps heading towards us from upstairs. It was Mr. Palmeri and another man, whom I later learned was his brother. I tried to ask what was going on, but all I got for an answer was a kick in the ribs and them telling me to shut up."

"Did you try and defend yourself?"

"I couldn't, sir. My hands were tied to something behind my back. I learned later that it was a bar of the cage I was held in."

"What happened after that?"

"They took both of us out of the cages and told us that the other man—Thomas, his name was—was going to 'teach me how to 'play'."

"Play?"

"Yes sir."

"What did that mean?"

"Right then?"

"Yes."

Paul swallowed hard. "They made Thomas shove me towards a wooden table and chain my arms to it. Then they forced him to stand next to me, and gave him a wooden rod. Mr. Palmeri's brother told Thomas that if he didn't beat me…." Paul exhaled sharply, then continued. "…he'd get turned into a paper target. Behind him, Mr. Palmeri sat with a loaded shotgun, ready to fire."

"What happened?"

"Thomas beat me."

"Badly?"

"Yes, sir. I could barely move afterwards. Once they were satisfied, they let me up and made me stand over Thomas and beat him likewise."

"Were you threatened as well?"

"Yes sir, I was. The barrel of the rifle was shoved into my back."

"Was that the only time you were beaten?"

"No, sir. That happened regularly. Sometimes they would beat us individually. Other times they'd have different methods of hurting us."

"Such as?"

"One time I was forced to burn Thomas with a scalding-hot iron. Another time a different man—Josh, his name was—was made to shove burning cigarettes into my arms and legs. Another time Mr. Palmeri's brother held my head inside a trough full of water until I went limp. Once I was made to cut…to cut…" Paul's voice hitched badly, and Reid could tell he was struggling not to cry.

"It's okay. Take your time."

Paul took in a few deep breaths, trying to steady himself. "One night I was made to strip Josh naked and chain him to the table. Mr. Palmeri's brother shoved a paring knife in my hand and told me to 'cut' Josh."

"Cut how?"

"I had to make little incisions all over him…" The tears fell silently down Paul's face. "There were so many…I kept them tiny, hoping I wouldn't have to do many, but…they kept forcing me to make longer ones, and more of them…God, I'm so sorry…I'm so sorry…"

Paul's sobs were not the only ones in the room. Behind Reid, a woman cried out, her grief shared with the rest of the gallery.

"You were forced to do this?" The prosecutor kept his voice gentle.

"Yes, sir," Paul replied, his voice barely a whisper. "Mr. Palmeri had his shotgun pointed right at me, and his brother had a steel-tipped leather whip at the ready, just waiting for me to 'disobey' them.

"Were you whipped?"

"Yes, sir, a couple of times. They would bind us to a long pole near the end of the cellar where they kept our cages, and beat us. Once they made a game of it, to see which one of us would remain conscious the longest."

"Conscious?"

"Yes, sir. You know, not pass out from the pain."

"What about the conditions?"

"Conditions?"

"What was it like where you were kept?"

"Cold. We were in a cellar, kept in giant wooden cages with locks. It was like being that proverbial 'bird in a cage'."

"Was there water?"

"Sometimes. Mostly in the trough where they tried to drown us."

"Were you able to eat?"

Paul took another deep breath. "Sometimes. When they thought we'd 'played' well, they'd give us food. Never very much. Mostly bread, though once…"

"Yes?"

"Once they made Thomas and I fight each other. The person standing at the end got a bowl of hot soup, which had to be eaten at once in front of the loser."

"Who won?"

"Thomas, sir. I had to watch while he ate."

"What about water?"

"Well, sir, like I said, mostly it was in the trough…"

"Were you able to drink it?"

"If we were allowed a drink, that's where we'd have to drink it from. No hands, either."

Reid couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of disgust for the men who'd done this to Paul, to all of those poor men whose corpses they'd found lying in the woods.

"And this lasted for five months?"

"For me, yes, sir. I was lucky."

"And the other men you mentioned? What happened to them?"

"They…they died."

"How?"

Paul took a moment, trying to recall. "Thomas took sick," he said. "By the end he was skinnier than I was when I was found. He'd caught something—I thought a cold, but it was probably worse. One morning they woke us to make us 'play' some more and he didn't get up."

"And Josh?"

"He died from his wounds," Paul said softly. "The ones I had to…" His voice began to break, and his breathing became more and more erratic. "I'm so sorry…"

"It's not your fault."

"Yes, sir. That's what people tell me, but…"

"Let's focus on the night you were rescued. What happened then?"

Paul's focus returned. "Mr. Palmeri let someone in. Was a young man, by the sounds of things—the floorboards above me weren't soundproof."

"You're talking about Dr. Reid."

"Yes, sir, though I didn't know his name then. After a few minutes, Mr. Palmeri's brother hauled Dr. Reid down and tossed him in the cage next to me, tying him to the bar like I'd been at first."

"What did you do?"

"When he woke up, I warned him to stay quiet."

"Why?"

"If we were caught speaking to each other, it would go worse for us."

"You mean more beatings, more torture."

"Yes, sir."

"Continue."

"Well, not long after he woke up we were taken out of out cages and told that I would teach the doctor how to 'play'."

"What did that consist of?"

"I was made to sit on a chair, which I was bound to. They shoved Dr. Reid next to me, released his hands, and made him shave my hair off with a plastic razor."

"Did he do this?"

"He did, sir. He was told that if he didn't, Mr. Palmeri would most certainly shoot him."

"Was Mr. Palmeri holding his rifle?"

"Yes, sir, he was. It wouldn't have missed, he was that close to him."

"What happened after that?"

"Dr. Reid finished taking my hair off, and then he was thrown onto the table and chained to it. Mr. Palmeri's brother forced me to stand next to the table, and put the wooden rod in my hand. He told me I'd have to beat him, or else I would be shot."

"And did you?"

"Yes, sir, I did." Paul's voice grew quiet. "I'm so sorry…"

"Then what?"

"We were tossed back in our cages, and told we would eat. A little later, we were given a small loaf of hard bread, split in two. I ate my share, while Dr. Reid took a small part of his and let me eat the rest."

"Then?"

"After a few more minutes Mr. Palmeri tossed a cold washrag at me and told me to wipe myself off. I did. It was the first time in months I'd been allowed to clean myself."

"And the doctor?"

"Mr. Palmeri's brother tied him to a bar on his cage, and washed him down himself. Then they left us for the night. Then the FBI came, and, well…"

"Okay. Thank you." The prosecutor turned to the judge and said, "No more questions."

"Does the defense have any questions?"

"We do, your honor," the defense attorney replied. Walking over towards the witness box, the attorney said, "In your statement you said that Mr. Palmeri's brother instigated most of the abuse. Is that true?"

"It is, and it isn't."

"How is it _not _true?"

"It's true that his brother came up with a lot of the ideas. But your client went along with them. Even came up with some of the more gruesome ones."

"Such as?"

"Cutting Josh," Paul said simply. His bright blue eyes sparkled with fury and despise of the man before him. "Taking the lash to us. Shoving us naked in freezing water and forcing us to stand perfectly still in the bitter cold until we dried."

"I see. Mr. Westfield, you admitted that _you_ yourself inflicted many of the injuries against the other men you were with."

"Not by choice. We didn't starve ourselves. We didn't want to freeze to death. We didn't want to be beaten."

"No, but you admit you participated."

"Under duress. Either we did, or we were dead."

"I see."

"I don't think you do, sir."

"You don't?"

"No. _You_ weren't there. _You_ didn't hold your breath every time you heard steps across the floorboards. _You_ didn't pray that today would be the day they left you alone, to _only_ freeze and starve a bit more. _You_ didn't feel the barrel of that rifle pressed against your back. _You_ weren't told you had to…" Paul swallowed thickly, then continued. "…to torture and beat another person who was suffering with you, just to be allowed to keep breathing another day. _You_ didn't beg for a sip of water, after two days of thirst. _You_ didn't wish for even a crust to settle a stomach that hadn't seen food in four days. No. You didn't do that. But you _would_ allow someone to get away with doing that to me. To those others."

The young man's bright blue eyes shone as though they were on fire. In the gallery, Reid was more than convinced. He'd only seen a tiny fraction of the hell these men put Paul and the other victims through, and was quietly grateful for it.

"No further questions." The lawyer returned to his seat next to his client.

"Your Honor, may I redirect?" the prosecutor asked.

"Make it quick."

Standing at his seat across the aisle, the prosecutor asked his question. "Have you changed because of this incident?"

"I'm not sure I know what you mean, sir."

"How are things different now than they were before this?"

"Oh." Paul thought a moment. "My muscles are weaker, because of the malnutrition. My heart is too. I'm on pills, but I still have to take things easy. I can't run anymore, not like I used to—no more marathons for me. It took three months of a controlled diet just to get me back to what I weighed before, and that was because I had a tendency to try and eat everything in sight because I didn't think I'd get the chance to have more. My hair's grown back, but it's thinner than it was—another effect of the malnutrition for so long. I'm always cold now, even on the hottest days, because of the damage done to my system. I have nightmares, bad ones. I'll never be out of therapy, and my doctors tell me I'll always have some problems with dark, small spaces and the sight of blood. And I can't shake the feeling sometimes that someone's standing behind me with a rifle pointed at my back, even in the middle of a busy street or my own bedroom at night."

"Thank you. No further questions. The prosecution rests."

--

It took only twenty minutes for the jury to come back with a guilty verdict. Rick Palmeri would spend the rest of his life in a maximum security prison upstate, being convicted of seven counts of murder as well as numerous counts of kidnapping and torture. Reid, along with Morgan and Emily, stood just outside the courthouse with Paul and Laura, taking in the blazing summer sunshine.

"It's over," Paul said. "He can't come back."

"No, he can't," Morgan told the young man. "And that's because of you. What you did up there, that was incredible."

"I hear you're getting married," Emily said, trying to take everyone's mind off of recent events.

"Yes, ma'am," Laura said, blushing. "We're hoping for October."

"Congratulations!" the agents said. Paul smiled widely. Reid realized it was the first time he'd seen him actually smile.

"Yeah. I'm supposed to start working again too—from home, now, not like I was—but it'll give me something to do."

"That's great," Reid said, shaking Paul's hand.

"You look lots better," the young man remarked, eyeing Reid's frame.

"Yeah. Three weeks at home and another month at a desk. Nothing lasting, though." He gave Paul a small smile. "I'll be fine."

"Not for lack of trying, though," Morgan said, chuckling. "First week back in the office and he was ready to take the bull by the horns."

"Good thing our boss made him stay put—otherwise he'd have chased after the bad guys on crutches," Emily teased.

"Still, thanks. Literally, I owe you my life. I don't think they'd have ever let me go…"

"It's no problem," Reid reiterated. "And congratulations again."

"Thanks."

As the team members said their good-byes and headed back towards their SUV, Emily quickly snatched the keys from Morgan's hand.

"Hey, sister," the agent said in surprise. "What gives?"

"This time, _I'm_ going to drive. No more getting lost. No more 'not paying attention'." Then she walked over to the driver's side door. "And no more arguing!"

Chagrined, neither Reid not Morgan said another word. They took their seats, and let Emily fire up the engine and take the shortest route back to the airstrip.

"Morgan?" Reid said finally as they walked up to the plane.

"Yeah, kid?"

"I think we should let Emily drive more often."

Keeping his voice low, Morgan fell in step with his younger colleague. "Personally? I think so too." Then the agents filed onto the plane and started the flight back to Quantico, Emily smiling all the way.

* * *

**And that's the end. I hope you've enjoyed this, and I welcome suggestions as to what you'd like to see next.**


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